


Love is a difficult case to solve

by human_err0r



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 18th Century, Angst, Best Friends, Closeted, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Homosexuality, Hurt/Comfort, John comforts him, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, References to Drugs, Sherlock is a Mess, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:08:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25148956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/human_err0r/pseuds/human_err0r
Summary: Two years after Sherlock Holmes fell with Moriarty to their death, something happens to John Watson. Something important and big enough for Holmes to leave the shadows and publicly come back to life.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 7
Kudos: 44





	1. Two years aniversary

**Author's Note:**

> This story was made by the role play I had with @/ofhismethods on Instagram. My parts are focused on John's point of view. We both enjoyed writing it, however it sadly came to an end before its ending so I decided to share it, and continue it, for Johnlockians' delight.

The rain had started to pour on London when he decided to leave the warmth of his home. This weather was absolutely not helping with the incredibly bad mood he had woken up with. Mary Watson had sensed it right when he reluctantly accepted to have breakfast with her this morning, and she was quick to go to some friend's she apparently hadn't seen in a long time. He suspected she was lying when she unnecessarily added the "but it was planned a week ago" part, but whatever, he wasn't feeling like being in her company today. Especially not today. 

It had not taken him long to notice that it was the anniversary of his dear best friend's death today, which probably happened to be the cause of this uncomfortable feeling in his guts. Two years, and it still hurt like the first day. The rain decided to accompany his mourning as he walked down the street, cane in his right hand, hair soon sticky on his forehead. The wind was blowing mercilessly. No wonder why the city seemed so empty. He would have probably stayed inside if he hadn't something else to do. 

Today, just like exactly one year ago, John was going to Baker Street. Why cry on a grave when he could drop by the place where it all had started? Despite his anger, he felt grateful. After all, Sherlock helped him to get ahold of himself when the war had destroyed the very best of him. The detective had taught him many things, and a lot of good moments were to be taken from the bad ones. It took him a few minutes to arrive at his destination. He ignored the stinging in his chest as he pulled out the key and opened the first door. Two years since he had moved out but he still had the keys to his old flat. At the funeral, Mrs. Hudson had told him she would keep it unoccupied for a while without explaining the reasons of such an act, but John was sure she still couldn't get over Holmes's death either. He hadn't contacted her in a while, therefore he did not waste any time in the corridor and quickly moved upstairs to reach the 221b. He could hear the rain continuing outside, the drops fiercely crushing against the closed windows. That was the only noise disturbing the deep silence. That, and the soft tingle of his keys. Automatically, he pulled out the second one out of the pocket of his trousers, but soon realized he wouldn't have to, for the door was slightly open. His heart skipped a beat as, for a second, the craziest situation flashed through his mind. 

No. An open door meant nothing. Maybe Mrs. Hudson had come to clean, and inadvertently forgot to fully close it. Yet, as he stepped closer to the entrance, he felt the urge to call Holmes's name. What if he'd be welcomed with an answer? All the sudden possibilities coming to his mind because of a small detail like this made him feel awfully dizzy. He had to stop moving, just a few seconds, face a few miles away from the wooden door. Just to calm down. He had promised himself not to get too deep into high expectations. God, it was just like last year... Sighing loudly, he rubbed one palm over his face. 

"This is fine. You can do it." He whispered to himself, ending his last sentence with a shaky breath. His hand left his face to gently push the door open in a little creak.

He was welcomed by silence and darkness. Carefully, he stepped inside, taking his time, not rushing himself. After the first few steps, the anxious sentiment was gone, but was replaced with bitterness. He could not see anything, but his senses were awake. Nostalgia hit him right in the face, and sadness blindfolded him. No lights, oh, he didn't dare to reach for the switch. Curtains half drawn, his eyes could only distinguish shapes in the dark. Shapes of objects, no living soul had entered this somehow sanctuum in probably one year; his last visit. No one, even if there was just an ounce of opportunity, would wish to live here. It smelled stuffy, combined to the terrible scent mixed chemicals burning in such a small space that remained undisrupted. Holmes always had quite a strange lifestyle, that could surprise Watson in the most unexpected ways. In these rooms, happened more than what a quiet life with Mary could provide him. There was no issue in admitting that, it did not mean he regretted his choice. He had gone past the guilt stage of grief, he knew now that had he done things differently, the conclusion to what happened would've been the exact same; his dear companion had gone far too deep into his game with Moriarty, so deep he must have died in a cruel manner. His face still haunted him. The sound of a cocking gun, preparing to shoot multiple bullets in a to thin wall echoed through the flat, followed by shaky laughters. Even gone, Holmes could not disappear, could he? 

John rolled his eyes at the old tricks his ex flatmate would execute. Growing a forest indoors and letting a goat wander around were probably the two things he would bring up if asked. He was so tied up to those upcoming feelings that the blow crashing upon his head came unexpected. 

A quiet, strangled huff came out of his lips, eyes shutting as a mere reflex for a few seconds. Just as he was about to turn around, something caught up in his feet and he fell down on the floor. He didn't have the time to process what just happened that he received an other blow, in the stomach this time. It made him cough up noisily, entire body bending, like folding in two. Blindly, he tried to reach for anything, a chair nearby, legs shaking at his attempt to stand up. Yet, everything was happening fast, too fast, and he couldn't find any source of light around him. Something, someone was here, with mischievous intentions. A pressure enslaved him, obliged him to stay on the ground. And then, his face became the next target. He got punched once, twice, thrice, his ears filled with the ragged breathing of the stranger on top of him, beating him up senseless. Usually, John would've easily managed, but this time, he had been too slow, and there was nothing he could do, except trying to dissuade the other with words he tried to keep steady. 

"This... This is a huge mistake.." He succeeded to say, lungs almost running out of air. 

"You are going to pay, Sherlock Holmes."

The stranger's voice was hoarse. Of course. It was for Sherlock. A bitter chuckle made John shake slightly. What a fool was this man..didn't he read the news? Didn't he know what happened? 

"Oh, that makes you laugh?!" 

Suddenly, the pressure on his stomach was gone. The man had stood up. Good. Afraid to move, John stayed motionless on the floor, fingers slightly twitching.

"Look, I'm not-" 

He couldn't finish, for a blade right in his abdomen cut him short in his sentence. His eyes were open wide while he choked for air, vivid pain gnawing at his guts. His hands quickly searched for the wound; he could feel sticky blood dripping on his trembling fingers. "I am not Sherlock Holmes, he bloody died two years ago!" He shouted with the strenght he could use after being beaten up and stabbed. Right after that, he heard a door slam, and quick steps coming upstairs. He did not see what happened next, for he passed out right when the man who attacked him ran away. 

When his eyes opened a few hours later, he was at the hospital, with fresh, white clothes and sheets to keep him warm. His hair was dry, but his face and stomach hurt. Half conscious, he tried to listen to the voice of a doctor who came to him, explaining that apparently, Mrs. Hudson had come and made the man run away, and that she came earlier to see how he was doing. Even though he was exhausted, he could admit that from now on, he'd call her more often.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It might not have been clear from the first chapter, but I wanted to apologize for the rather short chapters of this work. Keep in mind this is a role play length story! Plus this was written with someone else, so I did not feel like modifying their part.  
> Thanks for understanding!  
> Meanwhile, enjoy this chapter and I will post the rest very soon!!

Sherlock Holmes was back. Well, he had never really been away. He had lived like a shadow, hiding behind masks and disguises until he had forgotten what it felt like to be himself. Even more than before, dangers now seemed to lurk around every corner, one always seemed to find him and so Sherlock was never safe, never came home, never arrived. A life on the run, accompanied by paranoia and, despite his displeasure to admit it, loneliness and fear. It seemed like there was no way back, his old life an impossibility. 

A wish, a hope, a dream. And despite everything, nothing seemed to stop him from visiting his old life now and then. His old home, Mrs. Hudson, whom he saw reminiscing, although he had always believed that she abhorred him. 

And then there was Watson, whom he missed most of all the beloved, familiar things. He was all he had left, his only friend. More than ever, Sherlock appreciated the benefits of such a friendship or better, could appreciate it. His confused thoughts became clearer with time. He allowed himself to look at things from an all new perspective, and so he caught himself more and more often companying his friend without him knowing it. Hidden he took part in a life that wasn't his anymore, and yet it felt like it.

And then it came, this one auspicious day when everything would change. An event that overcame even the strong, stubborn will of a Holmes and forced him to leave his shadows. Because it was his fault.  
Just because of him this 'anniversary' was the hardest for his friend, just because of him had Watson entered the house on Baker Street and the apartment where so many memories lived. Just because of him his best friend almost died. Despite the risk and the thought that the assassination attempt had been meant for him, even Holmes found it disrespectful to enter the hospital in a ridiculous costume. Today he was just himself, something he owed his friend. 

Of course, he didn't start his visit without preparations. He had been watching the entrance of the hospital for a while. Nothing suspicious, but at least he knew when Mary visited him and when she left the hospital. Meant he had a short time span for some time alone with him. Under his arm he held a bouquet of flowers with a small card stuck in it, in his hand a pack of chocolates. He looked hectically around, meticulously paying attention to every movement, every face, every discrepancy. The escape plans had been made, he just hoped he wouldn't have to implement them. He was prepared for everything except the reunion. He had no idea what to say, how to act. Just knock and enter? Probably the only way. 

Every new step towards Watson's room felt harder as if his legs were as heavy as lead. When he arrived, he stared at the wooden door for minutes, raising his hand, letting it fall again. Shaking his head, taking a step back, then forth. 

"Excuse me, Sir?" someone suddenly asked, a young, blonde, pretty nurse. "Are you okay? Can I help you, Sir?" Sherlock swallowed heavily. 

"Oh.. ugh.. yes, I wanted to Mr. Watson. This is his room, right?" 

"It was, Sir. We had to move him to safety. But.. I could announce you. If you'd give me your name, I'll gladly ask Mr. Watson." 

Holmes stared nervously at the nurse and then nodded. Goddamn it.

"Holmes, my name is Holmes. Sherlock Holmes" he mumbled. 

"Okay, Mr. Holmes. Please stay here, I'll be right back." 

The nurse ran down the hall and disappeared around the next corner. Sweat stood on his forehead while he waited. Minutes felt like hours. Then she came back, waving at him. He followed her. In front of Watson's room there was a policeman. Actually, that would have been the moment Holmes would have said goodbye. But not today. He took a deep breath, then stepped forward. The door was open. The policemen followed him inside.

"Dr. Watson, is this a friend of yours?" the man asked. Sherlock stood there lost, helpless in a way, not daring to watch Watson lying there in his bed. He was ashamed, didn't want to see the shocked expression in John's face, the sadness, probably despair. He couldn't handle it.


	3. Chapter 3

Hospitals. 

John hated them with a passion. As a doctor, there was no problem with pacing up and down their corridors, but as a patient, it was a whole different story. After all, who liked to be wrapped in covers that smelled like detergent, with the formal ban on moving, would it be just a few inches from the bed. Despite the burning ache in his abdomen, he had wanted to sit up, and as soon as the nurse who was telling him what happened noticed this, she hurried to his side and managed to make him still. 

"You must not move, Sir. Or your wound will open again."

The tone of her voice was sweet, but it deeply annoyed John. He did not need to be taken care of. This was probably one of his biggest flaw; the blatant difficulty to accept help coming from others. As she was adjusting the blanket on the top of his body, he spotted the frame of a policeman standing in front of the half-opened door. This made him raise an eyebrow, powerless facing the grotesque situation he had been put into.

"Excuse me, but..why is there a police agent guarding my door?" He asked with the calmest voice he could've produced. The young nurse pushed the blond strands away from her forehead.

"Somebody tried to kill you, Sir! This is why you need protection, and why we moved you to an other room." She explained all of that casually, unaware that John was close to laughing because of how he found it all absurd.

"I was not the target, my dear." He mumbled, grasping the white blanket with one hand to pull it up to his chin, back of the head pressing against the soft pillow.

"That's it. Rest some more. Does it hurt anywhere?" She had completely ignored his last remark, and once she was done with fumbling around, she left him be, probably thinking he would enjoy this time alone to sleep. Of course not. 

First of all, he needed to see his face. Leaning over the nearest table, he grabbed the small mirror resting on top of it and brought it up close. What he saw did not please him at all. His left cheek was swollen and tinted with bruises. He had one black eye, and a red cut on his bottom lip. A few seconds of staring was enough. These last few months, looking at his own reflexion had been difficult to do already; observing his pale face, the dark circles under his eyes getting worse every night he'd wake up from a nightmare. Watching Holmes fall to his unevitable death, over and over again. Watching his closed eyes, the horrifying calm expressions on his face, as if it was his plan all along. As if his best friend had acceptrd death even before it had come for him. Oh, he had seen companions die in front of him in Afganistan, when the war had struck hard and heavy. He had seen a lot, but nothing was worse than being haunted by Holmes's ghost.

A quiet grunt leaving him, he set the mirror aside, pulled down the covers and carefully lifted his shirt to have a look at his deeper wound. Bandages were wrapped around his torso, which prevented him from checking the intensity of the damage. He decided it was just a mere scratch, and that he needed to convince the doctor in charge of him to let him leave this place as soon as possible. Oh yes, it was that much of a pain to be enclosed here. At least, he was allowed to think about something else when Mary visited him. She did not stay for a long time, but it still felt good to see his wife, even when she attacked him with questions. It was most likely that she knew he had been to Baker Street again, but she avoided bringing it up, and for that, John felt a bit thankful. No way would he have deliberately started to talk about his own failure. No one could've known someone was waiting for him inside, but it still left a bitter feeling of guilt in his mouth. 

When Mary left, a sudden fatigue crushed John down. Perhaps he would just sleep, after all, but as he was about to close his eyes, his ears caught two distinct voices behind the closed door. He could not clearly distinguish the words, but one was slow and gentle, whine the other sounded deeper. They talked for maybe two or three minutes, then silence again. Turning to lay on his right side, he supposed it was none of his businesses, and slowly, his eyelids dropped...only to lift again at the slight creaking wooden door opening after a quick knock. John managed to sit up on the mattress, gestures perhaps a bit too quick for the pain in his chest hit him in an intense wave. He did his best not to wince as his blue eyes fell on the new guests. His whole body froze. There, standing beside the policeman who had been in charge of his protection, was a man who looked exactly like Sherlock Holmes. At first, he had thought it was an hallucination again. It wouldn't be the first time that John had seen his old friend when in fact, he wasn't there. Even after two years, it continued to happen on a regular basis. But when the policeman spoke up, asked his question involving the third man standing in the room, he knew that it was real. He knew it, because his brain couldn't make up anything else that seemed close to the truth. These past two years, he had wished that Holmes was alive. But now that it actually happened, he was trying his best to find an other possible to run away from it. 

Silence had fallen into the room. He had to answer. To say something. But he felt nauseous. Empty. Angry. Fulfilled. Sad. Too many feelings at the same time. One of his fists shakily clenched at the blanket on his laps. 

"Yes." He managed to say, gaze unable to hold any of the man's eyes. "I'm afraid he is." 

His head gave a small nod to inisist on the words he had just uttered, and now, he had to fight the urge of..doing what, exactly? He didn't know, but it could either be shouting, crying or punching Holmes right in the face. As he couldn't do any of those options,he kindly asked the policeman to leave, and that done, he could finally dare to look at Sherlock Holmes, who had not changed one bit. He noticed the embarrassed expressions on his face, the bouquet of flowers and the box he was holding, and suddenly, he knew exactly how to behave. A storm of emotions was hitting him violently, but he had to remain as calm as possible. Taking a deep breath, he started to speak, chosing each word carefully, no matter how hard it was, no matter the heartache.

"You know that if I wasn't polite, I would've asked you to leave." He said, voice slightly trembling. He couldn't let his rage out, yet he was sure it would end up bursting out at some point. Especially if he was going to keep talking. "Now, I don't want any excuses. It's fine. I don't need that." A nervous chuckle escaped his lips and he scratched the back of his neck. "In fact, I don't want you to say anything." 

He wanted to glare at Holmes. To make him feel guilt, see him even more embarrassed. But staring at him was something he was unable to do,his gaze had given up long ago. He could do nothing but watch the tiles on the floor, a well put up mix of black and white, ears buzzing loudly. He should've probably asked him to leave, in the end. What good was there to have him in this room? That was not fair. He had tried, so hard, to grieve. To have closure, say goodbye to a man who had disappeared for good. Why couldn't it be that easy? Why would he come back? Two years. Two bloody years.

"Why are you here?"

It hurt. It hurt so much. He didn't even want an answer. He wouldn't be able to listen to it. But he still asked anyway, glancing up at him with burning eyes. 

"Why are you here?"


End file.
